​​​​​Prologue

THE SON OF GRIM heaved beneath the weight of chains. The molten lava of Hell’s Teeth bubbled three feet away, pock-marking his blackened skin. Silver horns, spanning the length of his shoulders and arms and the track of his spine, lengthened. Ralan’s muscles strained as he yanked on the iron fetters. He heard them groan and smiled. A brace of ghouls lined the rocks above, shrieking their mindless babble as though cheering him on.

‘Why do you resist?’ whispered a voice, feather-soft in his ear. ‘You belong to me, to your brothers and sisters. You have always belonged to your family.’

The Tenth Torment ignored the disembodied voice. Rocks trembled and split, vibrations rumbling beneath him. He glanced up to see the others approaching. The nine Torments arranged themselves in sets of three.

‘Our father is disappointed,’ said Cadaver. He was the palest of the so-called brothers with a head all angles, giving him a malevolent visage. He was also their leader. ‘I, on the other hand, am furious.’

‘Quit this foolishness, Ral,’ spat Karal. She was Second with a yellowish hue to her skin. Gold-tipped horns entwined her body curving inward to form a natural armour.

‘There is time to make amends,’ said Striga, who was Third. She came closest of all. Her skin was the palest, horns smaller and with a silver tint like her hair. ‘I’ve spoken with father. He will not be harsh with your punishment if you acknowledge him. Acknowledge us. There is no need for this.’

Ralan stared into her golden eyes. She had always been able to pierce his defences ... but not this time. He bowed his head and gave the chains a tug, which served as his answer. Fissures erupted within the rock.

Striga took a step backward and gasped. ‘You are going to force his hand. All of this for her? Don’t you love me?’

Another tug, the links in the chains weakening, cracks in the rock grown larger.

‘Enough,’ growled Cadaver. ‘For rebelling against—’

‘Do you not see what he has done to me?’ Ralan gave the chains another mighty pull. ‘His latest creation is an abomination, and you, a willing participant. I disown him as my father.’

Their leader shrugged as though it were nothing. ‘For disobeying—’

‘How were we born?’ Ralan asked. ‘Do you not remember?’

The Torment paused to stare at him, eyes a deep ruby. Ralan stared back, willing him to understand. Cadaver’s face was a mass of scars, thick brow and cheek ridges notched from countless battles. Massive muscles strained thick leather armour. ‘What did you say?’ he hissed.

Ralan laughed. ‘He stole your memories, didn’t he? Not mine, although he tried. I will always remember. I stood against him. I and two others, we formed a true resistance. One has gone his own way, but the other, I would find and save her if I can. Yes, Striga, I would suffer this for her. The truth of our origins must be known.’

‘What is he talking about?’ asked Mara, another female. Her eyes glowed as silver as the tresses spilling down her ridged shoulders.

‘Cadaver,’ demanded Vipir, a broad and vicious Torment, ‘what does he mean?’

‘What is he saying?’ This from Lugat, a slender male, horns small, skin a greenish hue.

Instead of answering, the Torment commander unsheathed his twin scythes. Ralan realised too late that Cadaver knew the truth. So, he thought, he did not manage to take your memories either, but you’ve chosen your side. Their leader would not allow him to live another moment. He swung a blade at Ralan’s head.

With a roar, the son of Grim gave one final tug. The chains ripped free of the rock. He ducked beneath the blade and rolled to the side. Spikes embedded in his wrists, he used the chains like flails, forcing them all back. All but Striga, who stood looking on with a face filled with sorrow. It cut him deeper than any blade.

After several feints at Cadaver’s face, unbalancing him, Ralan swung the chains to wrap them about the head of the lowest ghoul. He heaved and the hapless undead creature fell with a wet thump. It shrieked as he leapt upon it. Before the others reached him, his fingers gouged the pressure points on either side of its skull.

The scythes swung too late, as the world about him shivered and transformed.

Stepping away from the ghoul, Ralan freed his wrists of the spikes. His blood spilled upon the wet grass of the clearing. They would hunt him, and perhaps catch him, but he had to deny the Grim his favoured servant. The fate of existence itself depended on it, but didn’t it always.

It had been raining in this world. Ignoring his wounds, which would heal by day’s end, he took a breath of mortal air. It was northern Adalalcas, and the heart of the Icarthian Imperium.

My imperium, he thought, with a sad smile. How I’ve missed you.

It felt good to be home.

Behind him, as he left the clearing and entered Tarl Forest, the air began to shimmer and twist.